Matthew

by Grace Burrowes

  “I accept your apology, but please don’t do again whatever you did that you’re sorry for.” She popped to her feet and held out her hand, because Mama said words meant more when accompanied by deeds.

  Uncle Thomas bowed over her hand—he was supposed to shake it—then went back down the ladder without another word. Perhaps he was off to apologize to Mama, because he ought.

  Sometimes, Priscilla felt like the whole world ought to apologize to Mama.

  * * *

  All the anger Matthew hadn’t expressed when sitting beside a befuddled baron on the cottage porch swing threatened to choke him along with his shortbread.

  Sutcliffe, with a few words, had shaken his sister’s confidence. Family could do that. A meal with the Capshaws could cast Matthew back into the role of weary, bewildered young husband, or equally weary, bewildered young father… of one, then two, then three lively boys.

  Agatha and Emmanuel, despite having no offspring of their own, had been full of suggestions for how Matthew ought to have gone about raising his children. Emmanuel had frequently pulled Matthew aside and explained how to go on with a new wife, despite the fact that the Capshaws’ own marriage appeared merely functional.

  Emmanuel’s guidance had invariably been stupid. Even as a young man, Matthew had realized as much.

  “Would you care for a sandwich, Matthew?” the baroness asked, holding up the dish.

  Every offering on the plate was slathered with yellow mustard, which Matthew could not abide.

  “Thank you, no,” Matthew said, the first time he could recall refusing food in ages. “I’d best return to Belmont House and see that the leftovers from the hunt breakfast have been sent round to Vicar Herndon. I need to look in on the hounds, and Spiker will want a report from me as well. Miss Jennings, might you accompany me to the stable?”

  There were, of course, no leftovers from the hunt breakfast, and the hounds were doubtless napping. Spiker was likely still occupying the posting inn’s snug, treating the near-loss of his entire arm with liberal doses of gossip and winter ale.

  Theresa had changed out of her borrowed habit, back into one of her wren-brown dresses. She appeared composed, but she darted glances at the door, the clock, the window, Matthew’s hands.

  Those hands yearned to touch her, though she might remonstrate with him for his presumption, which show of spirit he’d welcome.

  “I think Priscilla has hidden herself away in the stable,” Theresa said, rising. “I’ll spare Alice the effort of retrieving her, if you can wait for me to fetch a shawl.”

  The trip across the gardens was made in silence, while Matthew mentally rearranged a recounting of his interview the baron.

  “Your brother loves you,” Matthew said as they approached the stable.

  In that breathless moment when Theresa had smiled at him over her half-eaten pear, and all Matthew had wanted was for her to see herself as he saw her, he’d admitted to the same emotion: He loved this woman. Desperately, endlessly, wonderfully.

  She drew her shawl closer, another plain brown garment, but at least this one looked warm.

  “Nine years of silence means Thomas loves me?”

  Argument, rather than polite agreement, was surely a hopeful sign. “You love him, though you haven’t spoken to him in nine years.”

  “I wrote to him, I prayed for him, I did what I could at Sutcliffe. He’s my brother, and the only family I had worth claiming until Priscilla came along.”

  Mention of the child’s name steadied Matthew’s resolve. “You are privy to much of my situation with Matilda, and you have not judged the man you know now for the misguided steps I took in my youth.” Theresa did not know the entire truth of Matthew’s marriage. Not yet.

  “You were trying to do the right thing,” Theresa said, taking Matthew’s arm. “You very likely did do the right thing, and you have not one but three boys to show for it. Your decision to marry a woman in difficulties could not have been entirely foolish.”

  Well, yes, it had been. Did Theresa think she was the only person to pay for one blundering season with year after year of her happiness?

  “I love my sons without limit, and they are ample consolation for a marriage that bitterly disappointed both parties.” Matthew ought not to air this linen now, with such turmoil brewing between Theresa and her brother, and yet, he wanted Theresa to know the truth. “Matilda never gave up her first love, Theresa. Not in any meaningful sense.”

  Matthew trusted Theresa Jennings. He hadn’t made a decision to trust her, hadn’t pondered evidence and hypotheses, the trust had simply taken up residence in his heart, like Maida had appropriated the library hearth the same day Matthew had accorded her house privileges.

  Theresa fretted over a cranky mare, she mothered the hell out of her lone child, she still protected a brother who had wealth, worldly wisdom, and position in abundance.

  “Matilda was not faithful to you even after the vows were spoken?”

  Theresa also didn’t mince about when the terrain became boggy.

  “For at least the first several years of our marriage, Matilda pined for her lost love, and after that, I focused on the boys. She was the mother of our children, and in that sense, we had a functional marriage.”

  A lone hedge of honeysuckle had got hopelessly confused by the Martinmas summer apparently, and was sporting a few fragrant blossoms.

  “You did not set her aside.”

  Matthew had had the means and the motive to do just that. He might have sent Matilda to visit fictional relatives in Wales or Cumbria, might have established her in London, so she could maintain a relationship with the boys. Agatha would have taken her in, though in Matilda’s most histrionic moments, she’d never threatened to join her sister’s household.

  Matthew plucked a sprig of honeysuckle and presented it to Theresa. “I didn’t hate Matilda, and the boys loved her. We muddled on, and for the most part, it wasn’t awful.”

  “Which means at times, the whole situation was horrid.” Theresa twirled the honeysuckle under her nose, then drew her fingers over the few, sad leaves still sheltering the blossoms. “You love your sons, so you protected them from the horrid parts.”

  Had Matthew had his hunting horn, he might have blown the view-halloo.

  “Precisely. One is protective of loved ones; therefore, I conclude you must have had a very good reason for pushing your only sibling away, Theresa Jennings.”

  She turned into Matthew’s embrace, as naturally as a leaf falls to the forest floor at winter’s approach. The fragrance of honeysuckle rose between them, a poignant contrast to the chill breeze.

  They would be visible from the house, and Theresa had suggested Priscilla was lurking in the stable, so Matthew led his lady to the bench across the lane. In summer, the oak tree provided magnificent shade, but today, the bench was cold and hard.

  “You leap to conclusions, Matthew.”

  “I do not leap, my dear. I study the evidence, read the signs, and ponder the possible explanations. Thomas’s stubborn silence suggests he cannot bear to know particulars of your ruin, and you’ve respected that, but he must also once again respect you.”

  Sutcliffe came striding out of the stable as if summoned, slapping at his breeches and coat sleeves until he spied Theresa and Matthew on the bench.

  Priscilla charged forth next, and when she might have barreled straight across the lane to her mother, Sutcliffe prevented her with a hand on her shoulder.

  Beside Matthew, Theresa silently bristled. He felt the war in her, between wanting Priscilla to have her uncle’s protection and resenting that such protection might cost the girl her mother’s company.

  “You grew up without a mother,” Matthew said. “Do not inflict the same misery on that innocent child.” Further than that, Matthew dared not go. He could dower Priscilla, pay for her education, and otherwise usurp Sutcliffe’s patriarchal role, but without marrying Priscilla’s mother, such arrangements would support the very worst conc
lusions.

  Theresa slipped her hand into Matthew’s, a gesture not lost on the baron, and probably not on the child either. Matthew did not move closer or put an arm around the lady’s shoulders, though he remained beside her, waiting.

  And hoping.

  * * *

  How well Theresa knew the expression Thomas wore now. A wintry breeze tousled his dark hair and riffled the lace at his throat, but he stood unmoving, a monument to fraternal ire. Priscilla looked wary too, and for that, Theresa nearly hated her brother.

  These feelings, of resentment and protectiveness, were as old as the first memory Theresa had of holding her baby brother, and they had grown more burdensome with time, not less.

  Matthew rose and offered Theresa his hand, the courtesy both innate and deliberate. He kissed her knuckles, then tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow as he escorted her to the stable yard.

  “Sutcliffe, you will have acquainted yourself with Tut, I trust,” Matthew said. “Priscilla does very well with him and has already cantered nearly halfway around the arena.”

  They’d cantered a few steps, mostly by accident. Matthew was making small talk—and a point, about civility, about a child being present.

  “The Jennings family has an aptitude for all things equestrian,” Thomas said, releasing his hold on Priscilla. “Thank you for the loan of the pony.”

  “I could mount a regiment of youngsters on my pensioners, and exercise does them good,” Matthew said, patting Theresa’s hand. “Priscilla, when I left the parlor, the baroness was urging shortbread upon me. Perhaps a piece or two remains.”

  “You may have one,” Theresa said, “and one cup of tea if the baroness offers. Come here, Priscilla, one of your braids is coming unraveled.”

  Let Thomas think of the child’s state of disrepair what he might. Priscilla turned her back to her mother and submitted to a quick tidying up, while Thomas’s expression remained unreadable.

  “Brush the hay from your stockings before you reach the house,” Theresa went on, turning Priscilla toward the garden and sneaking in a quick hug. “One piece of shortbread and one cup of tea, and you will let Miss Alice know you’ve had both.”

  “Thank you, Mama!” Priscilla said, racing off. “Good-bye, Mr. Belmont!”

  Silence descended, and still Matthew remained beside Theresa.

  Thomas watched Priscilla’s retreat, and abruptly, Theresa was exhausted. Tired of measuring every look and word, tired of apologizing, tired of worrying. Tired of hoping that her brother—not a stupid man, by any means—might someday understand.

  “Thomas, when you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you.”

  Priscilla stopped by the honeysuckle hedge and bent a sprig to her nose, then scampered around a bend in the path.

  “I am at your service,” Thomas said. “I’ll be in the parlor, trying to prevent my wife from stuffing the child with sweets. Belmont, if you’ll consider selling the pony, I’ll happily take him off your hands.”

  Was that Thomas’s idea of an olive branch, or an opening salvo?

  “I couldn’t sell that little fellow if I wanted to,” Matthew said. “The pony doesn’t belong to me, but rather, to my son Richard. We can’t sell what we don’t own, can we?”

  “If you change your mind, let me know,” Thomas said, offering Matthew his hand.

  Something passed between them, not exactly cordial. Prizefighters shook hands before pummeling each other. Thomas would be scandalized that Theresa even knew of such a bizarre ritual.

  And that was tiresome too.

  “I’ll see you at the house,” Thomas said, bowing to her then following in Priscilla’s footsteps. He walked past the honeysuckle without pausing and was soon out of sight.

  This time tomorrow, Theresa might be in a coach bound for Sutcliffe Keep, but she’d leave behind all the fretting, trying, and hoping where Thomas was concerned.

  “He can take Priscilla from me,” Theresa said. “He’s rich, he’s titled, he’s married to a lovely woman, and I’m a disgrace.”

  “What you are, is mistaken,” Matthew said, leading Theresa out of the cold and into the relative warmth of the stable. “For nine years Sutcliffe turned his back on you. We might excuse him for that rudeness while your cousins were extant, but we cannot excuse his indifference for the past two years, can we?”

  In the middle of the day, no work went on in the stable. The stalls had been mucked, the water buckets filled. The only sounds were horses—and one fat, furry pony—munching hay and shifting about on thick beds of straw.

  “You’re saying Thomas is the disgrace?” A month ago, Theresa would not have grasped that possibility, but she’d since had the benefit of Matthew’s perspective.

  And she’d fallen in love.

  “Thomas is wrestling with the suspicion that he’s behaved more shamefully than he can admit,” Matthew said, “and it’s about damned time. I’m wrestling with other possibilities, for which you should probably slap me.”

  Matthew braced her against the wall of Tut’s stall and brought her hips against his falls. His movements were measured and deliberate, an invitation rather than a demand.

  “I am wanton,” Theresa said, kissing Matthew on the mouth. “Don’t mistake me for some martyred creature who longs for a nunnery. I behaved myself all morning, only smiling at you the once, and my self-control has been taxed past bearing.”

  “You are not wanton, you are passionate,” Matthew said, kissing her back. “You are determined, you are lovely. All morning, all damned morning, I dealt with the hounds, the hunt staff, the small talk, with a vixen too concerned for her kits to seek her own damned covert, and all I could think about…”

  “Was you,” Theresa said, smiling against his mouth. “How easily you manage the hunt, how handsome you are on horseback, how people naturally follow your lead, and how the sunlight—”

  “Finds all the highlights in your hair,” Matthew said, pressing closer. “Madam, at this rate, I’ll have to walk home, and a drenching cold rain will be necessary to restore me to a respectable state.”

  Theresa rested her forehead against Matthew’s shoulder, loving the scent of him, the warmth and solidness. This kind of intimacy was new and wonderful, not simply of the body, but of the heart.

  She did not want to let him go, did not want to face the cold drenching rain of her next discussion with Thomas.

  Not quite yet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Come with me,” Theresa said, taking Matthew by the hand. “This won’t be dignified, but my dignity doesn’t overly concern me when I’m around you.” Finding privacy concerned her. One never knew when a judgmental brother might appear, breathing fire on all of her hopes and dreams.

  “I treasure that about you,” Matthew said. “You don’t stand on ceremony, don’t put on airs. You get on with—”

  Theresa opened the door to the granary, the portion of the stable reserved for storing feed. To keep out the birds and rodents, this room had a solid plank floor, thick oak walls, and only one window, which could be latched tight against the elements.

  The window was open now, the sole source of light. Wire mesh covered the opening, protecting the grain from the birds while letting in fresh air.

  “We won’t be disturbed,” Theresa said, though the setting was hardly conducive to reckless desire. The scent of oats permeated the space, reminiscent of porridge and freshly baked bread. Dust drifted in the sunbeams slanting through the window, and a shovel was propped against the wall.

  A sturdy table stood in one corner. Feed buckets, a wooden scoop, a few smooth red apples and a bunch of carrots occupied one side of the table. A pencil hung from a string suspended from a nail above the table, and sheets of foolscap weighted with a horseshoe sat on the other side.

  “One of these days,” Matthew said, wedging the shovel under the door latch, “you will allow me to share a bed with you, madam. You’ll enjoy it. Beds have pillows, fluffy mattresses, and clean linen
scented with sachets. Beds allow one to disrobe entirely. You will doubtless be shocked to know that the idea of you without clothing has filled more than a few of my waking hours.”

  A bird fluttered against the window screen, then bounced away.

  “Matthew, if you’d rather not…” Theresa had initiated this, this… interlude. A first for her. In a dusty, chilly barn… when Matthew’s house probably had two dozen rooms better suited to such folly.

  “I see you, and I want you,” Matthew said, stuffing the carrots and apples in one of the buckets and putting the lot on the floor. “Do you know how marvelous that is?”

  “Marvelous? I thought most men regarded their base urges as inconvenient half the time and undeniable the other half.”

  The stack of paper and the horseshoe went next, so the table surface was free of clutter. Matthew stuffed his gloves into a pocket, then withdrew a handkerchief from inside his riding jacket.

  “A man regards his base urges as a treasured inconvenience as long as they plague him,” Matthew said, scrubbing at the table with the handkerchief. “Then comes a day when he realizes… they haven’t plagued him for some time. Come here, my dear.”

  Theresa was across the room in two strides, then found herself hiked up onto the table.

  “A perfect height,” Matthew said, standing between her spread knees. “At first, I told myself my marital situation was to blame. Matilda tried to accommodate me intimately, but that’s… that’s hell for a man, particularly a young man. Utter, unrelenting hell. I think she even wanted to want me, if that makes any sense, but one can’t conjure desire when not even a spark of attraction exists.”

  Theresa unbuttoned Matthew’s hunt coat rather than look into his eyes. “Hell for you both, then.”

  “Precisely, and the road to that hell was paved with”—he let Theresa push the coat from his shoulders then took it from her and hung it on a peg—“animal spirits, so I learned to keep busy and to keep to my own bedroom.”